he took the bowl of stew because
the heat made hallucinations,
the desert shimmered and turned a
trap into a warm body, a
hand into a knife. animals
grazed slowly in the fields, as if
there would always be more to eat.
esau saw golden fields and slowed
too. heavy with the burden of
a failed hunt, he must have been in
a hurry to find joy, some sort
of pleasure that came easy to
his tongue. it had been too long since
he felt full and there was a weight
to the stew that could be called the
highest good. it’s true, hunger can
make anyone weak enough to
bend. the sun had become god, the
stew, an offering for small de
-lights. i understand a need to
surrender to body, to give
in to what cools my hunger, what
scalding poison must be swallowed.
by A. Benét
A. Benét is a Black, Queer poet and MFA student at San Diego State University. Her poems have been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and have been published, or are forthcoming, in Foglifter Press, Honey Literary, Diode Poetry, and more. You can find her on BlueSky @benetthewriter.
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